


In Which Sherlock is Whole

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff kind of...if you like your fluff angst-colored, M/M, Multi, Part of my "poor John" series which I seem to be perpetually writing, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been back in London for five days, but until today it meant nothing to me, nothing. I used to love London for her gritty underworld and constant noise, for the part of this city that never sleeps. Now my focus has narrowed to a pinpoint; there is nothing in London I have missed so much as John. <br/>------<br/>Sherlock is home and that's all that counts.</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone, although it will probably make more sense if you've read the rest of the series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock is Whole

_Sherlock:_

I'm not asleep. Not quite. I'm not quite awake, either. Admittedly this little adventure of mine has left me in a state of physical exhaustion so profound that even at half ten, lying on John Watson's battered, lumpy sofa, I can't keep my eyes open.

I've been back in London for five days, but until today it meant nothing to me, nothing. I used to love London for her gritty underworld and constant noise, for the part of this city that never sleeps. Now my focus has narrowed to a pinpoint; there is nothing in London I have missed so much as John. This sofa smells like him, faintly (and  _her_ to a greater extent, though I have been trying- and failing- to ignore her existence entirely) and if I listen very carefully I can hear him breathing, slow and steady, through the open bedroom door. John. I wonder vaguely what he would do if I tip-toed into his martial chamber and shook him gently awake, if I shared plans for leaving this wretched life- wife, job, creaky flat and secondhand furniture- behind in a whisper. Would he come?

No. The simple answer is no. My John is an honest man, and if he were to leave he'd do it in daylight, not like a coward in the night. But people like John don't make unwise decisions in the stark reality of morning; running away with me (to Baker Street? Paris? anywhere but here?) is the sort of foolish flight of fancy one considers on a sleepless night, not the proper judgment call one makes after a solid breakfast.

Footsteps, there, in the bedroom. My eyes snap open; have I been misled? Is John in some danger? No, of course not. It's only John, making his slow way (leg's acting up again, I see) towards the sitting room. I listen to him shuffle towards me and I close my eyes again, let him think I'm asleep.

John walks right up to the sofa and stands beside it for a long moment, silent. I contemplate peeking at him but curiosity bids me to wait, to see what he's going to do. He makes a small noise, something like a cross between a laugh and a startled gasp, and then- to my bewilderment- he sinks down to his knees. Again, silence. I have watched John sleep more times than I can count, have done so since almost immediately after he moved into 221B, but this feels different from my silent observations. I don't think John is counting my breaths or watching the movement behind my eyelids to find what stage of the REM cycle I'm on; he's just watching, holding vigil, reassuring himself that I'm alive.

His hand slips into my hair, warm and gentle, his fingers carefully searching my skull, and I can't sham sleep any longer. I open my eyes and press my head into his palm. John's face is fascinating; his eyes wide and his mouth small. There is an anguish there that does something strange and terrible to my stomach, something that twists and hurts.

John's hand is still stroking the same spot on my skull but his eyes are roving my face, his throat constricting again and again. Hoarsely, John says, "That day….you were- you were broken. Right here." His thumb brushes, presses, and now his touch and the hollow look in his eyes make sense.

"Ah," I say softly, taking his other hand and bringing it to my lips. I kiss his knuckles, one by one. "And now I'm not."

"And now you're not," John echoes, his voice small and full of wonder. "Sherlock…" He leans towards me, presses his forehead to mine, and I feel a splash of warmth hit my nose; John is crying. I don't think he's even aware of it, but he's crying. His hand moves to the back of my neck and he says, his voice shuddering, "I loved you so much, you bloody idiot."

I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and a little damp. If I kissed him now, would he let me? I swallow (reflexive but telling, impossible to fight and so obvious, too obvious) and whisper, "I love you still."

The hitch in John's breath is almost like a sob in this small space, in this tiny quiet flat with his face so close to mine. "Go to sleep," he says, roughly, leaning away from me and clearing his throat. "I shouldn't have woken you." He sits back and brushes at his face, stands and does it again.

"John." I start to sit up; John shakes his head.

"Sleep." He sets his hands on his hips and watches me for a moment, his eyes fond. "I'll see you in the morning," he says, like idea is miraculous. I suppose, in some ways, it is.

"Yes," I agree, lying back down and closing my eyes. "You will."


End file.
